Tributary (River of Time 3.2 Novella) (6 page)

“We hardly have time, before she departs. But we could begin, yes. Remind me, Lia. When the book merchant travels through next, or we get to Siena, I need to buy some books. We are in sore need of something new.”

Alessandra looked from one to the other, considering the wealth required to purchase books. “You both read?”

“We do,” Gabriella said.

She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised by the revelation, but in her village, she’d never known another woman who knew how to read and write. Mayhap it was part of the privileges of the noble class, to school their daughters as well as their sons. Or simply part of the mystique of the Ladies Betarrini. The She-Wolves of Siena.

Although, so far, she’d seen nothing in them that smelled of female knighthood. Only genteel femininity. Not that they didn’t have the stature of warrior queens. They were certainly both tall enough. Evangelia was a good four inches taller than her, and Gabriella two inches beyond her sister. She felt like a mere girl between them.

“Alessandra is entirely too long a name among friends,” Gabriella said. “May we call you Ali? My friends call me Gabi, and we call my sister Lia.”

Alessandra stared up at her. “I suppose so,” she said. She’d never been called anything but by her given name. But the nickname felt somehow warm, light to her, like she’d shed a heavy load.

“Or Sandra,” Evangelia said.

“I-I think I prefer Ali,” she said carefully, not wishing to offend her hostess.

“Good,” Gabi said, squeezing her arm. “I like it. So tell us, Ali. How old are you?”

“Twenty,” she said. It was odd, strolling arm in arm with them, having this girlish chat. Almost dreamlike.

“Ahh!” Gabi said. “I shall be too, in a year. Lia is almost seventeen.”

“And your husband?” Alessandra dared.

“He’s twenty-two. Lord Greco is twenty-three, and Sir Luca is of your own twenty years.”

Alessandra considered that. Lord Greco was only three years older than she. It seemed impossible that anyone near her own age had been so pivotal in the great battle. But he had. More than a year ago now… She shook off her reverie, aware that she was thinking about him, sparring with Lord Marcello, his power and prowess clear in every move, even if he had lost. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even if she despised everything he stood for. Now she understood why women used to speak of Lord Rodolfo Greco as the most desirable bachelor in Firenze, and why their voices became shrill when they spoke of him now, as if he had broken all of their hearts.

His words from last night came back to her. The way his eyes pleaded with her to understand. She felt the pull to empathize with him. But was a man divided any sort of a man at all? Her father had always been so stalwart, so sure in his loyalties. He’d become mean and surly, dull in the eyes, but that was due to their losses, their struggles. Never could she remember him hesitating, or changing his mind. He was single-minded, and had taught her to seek others who were similarly single-minded.
Life is far more simple when one knows his mind
, he said.

And wasn’t Rodolfo’s tortured speech testimony to that truth? It was as if he’d been torn in two, within, and continued to roil in the guilt and frustrations of his decision to come to Lord Forelli’s aid.

Outside the kitchens, when the stench of rotting bone and sinew met their noses, Lady Gabriella pulled them to a stop, visibly paling again.

“Gabi?” her sister asked, dropping Alessandra’s arm and turning toward her. “Are you all right?”

Gabriella bolted away from them then and vomited near the wall, one hand braced against it. Evangelia went to her, as did the knight, while Alessandra froze, unsure of what to do.

“Nay, it’s all right,” Gabriella said, waving the knight away with an embarrassed look. He backed off to a respectful distance.

“This is the third day in a row you’ve been sick,” Evangelia said lowly, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Mayhap you need to rest in your room. Get past this.”

“Nay, nay,” she said, pushing back her shoulders, and taking a deep breath. “I am fine. ‘Tis only in the mornings.”

“When is your baby due, m’lady?” Alessandra whispered.

Both women slowly dragged their eyes up to meet hers.

Alessandra frowned.
Oh no
. They’d not yet come to it. She’d seen her own mother pregnant eight times, four of those pregnancies leading to her brothers, the others lost at various stages. She’d learned to recognize the signs. But mayhap these ladies, with all their learned ways, had not. “Forgive me,” she began rapidly. “Mayhap I misunderstood—”

“M’lady,” said the knight, daring to near them again. “Might I fetch your maid? Your mother? Are you in need?”

“Nay,” Gabi said, lifting a hand to him, leaving another on her belly. “Please. We are well. I simply ate something that did not agree with me this morning. Mayhap it was Cook’s porridge?”

He smiled, plainly relieved. “Better not allow her to hear such words, so near the kitchen’s door,” he warned, with a nod.

“Agreed. Come,” she said, turning to Alessandra and Evangelia. “Let us resume our stroll.” They resumed their easy pace, and the knight fell back behind them.

“It is not possible,” she whispered.

“It’s not?” Evangelia asked, pacing ahead, turning to walk backward. Anger made her eyes stormy. “Really, Gabi? Do you not share a bed with your husband?”

Why was Evangelia acting so oddly? Was this not welcome news? Were not babies always welcome? Heaven knew death stole so many of them away…’Twas best to have as many as one could.

“I thought you were taking precautions,” Evangelia said, cold fury building in her pretty face.

Alessandra’s mouth dropped open, utterly confused.

Gabriella’s hands were on either side of her face now, massaging her temples. “I was…but there was one night…” She began to blush furiously.

“Gabi!” Evangelia rubbed her face in agony. “You were going to wait…Just a few more years…”

“I know, Lia!” Gabriella bit out, now turning angry eyes upon her sister. “You think I forgot?” She stepped forward again, leaving Alessandra behind, pushing past Lia.

A few years
…What were they talking about? Why would they wish to wait?

They both seemed to remember her presence again, as one. Gabriella looked down, took a deep breath, and then turned toward Alessandra, taking her hands in hers, while sending a reassuring smile over her shoulder to the guard. “I know we’ve only just met,” she whispered. “But please. I beg you. Speak of this to no one.”

Numbly, Alessandra nodded. Never in her life had she been with women who did anything but celebrate new life, budding within. Did not every married woman pray for babies? Certainly every woman she knew. Again, mayhap it was an oddity of the noble class…or the Sienese.

“I think it best if we get you back to your quarters,” Gabriella said, “and I to mine.”

Lord Rodolfo Greco entered the library after a quick knock and Alessandra guiltily shut the lambskin-bound book and slid it back on the shelf. His dark eyes, lined with thick lashes, went from her hand on the shelf to her and back again. “They are there for us all to read,” he said, pulling a cloth from his waistband and wiping the sweat from his brow. He turned a chair backward, and straddling it, sat down. “Do you read, signorina?”

“Nay,” she said, aware that he was looking her over now, undoubtedly admiring her in her borrowed finery. “Evangelia and Gabriella…they spoke of teaching me, but there’s not time.”

“You could always return for lessons,” he said. Was that the hint of a smile in his eyes?

“I hardly think that would be advisable.”

“You’re likely right. Please,” he said, giving way to a crooked smile, gesturing to the settee. “Sit, if you’d like.”

It was more a command then a request, and Alessandra did as he asked, fighting the urge to chew her lip. It would have been far easier, loathing him, if the man weren’t so dreadfully handsome. And…
winsome
. There was something about him that drew her. A quiet ache, deep within him, she longed to relieve. An itch she longed to soothe. Was it being here, being part of the Sienese, when he was…not?

“You must feel better today, signorina. You look…well.”

She folded her hands in her lap in an effort to keep from wringing them, every nerve on edge with him so close. It was different, today. His attentions. More as a man with his eyes on a maid, rather than a guardian keeping watch. “I am better. A slight ache, behind the eyes, an ongoing weariness, but much improved over the last several days.”

He studied her a moment longer, then rose, went to the desk, drew out a piece of parchment, uncorked the ink, and dipped in a quill. Swiftly, he wrote for a couple of minutes, reached in a cup for a pinch of powder, and sprinkled it across the parchment. He gave Alessandra a long look, leaned down and blew, a cloud of powder rising and then disappearing in the air. “Come,” he said, gesturing for her to approach.

She did as he asked and sat in the chair before the desk, directly in front of him. A shiver ran down her neck and spine as he leaned over to point at the parchment. “If you wish to learn to read, these are the primary building blocks,” he said, his warm breath washing over her bare shoulder, almost as if a kiss. “’Tis the letters of Dante’s Tuscan, a language we should all learn to read and write, whether we be Fiorentini or Sienese.”

She forced her eyes to the parchment, from one crisp letter to the next. His script was lovely, precise, even if she didn’t quite comprehend what she saw.

“These are a few words,” he said, pointing to the bottom of the sheet. “The letters form words, which become sentences, which become paragraphs, which become pages of script, which eventually become books. ‘Tis best to take reading one step at a time. First the letters. Then some words. But I wish to ask…Do you know what this word says?” He leaned closer to her again, making every hair on her neck stand on end. He smelled of leather and clean sweat and juniper, and she fought the urge to turn toward him. To look at him.

She forced her eyes to his finger and to where he pointed.

“’Tis my name.”

He cocked his head to look at her, terribly close, but she did not meet his gaze. “’Tis indeed,” he said with some surprise. “Do you recognize any other words?”

“Nay. My grandfather wrote my name for me, once. That is why I recognize it.”

“Ahh,” he said in appreciation. “A learned man of Firenze. What was your grandfather’s name?”

“Singore Marco Donatelli. He was a merchant of silver.”

Rodolfo half-laughed and he walked around the desk to face her. He smiled, and her stomach tightened, because when he smiled…when he truly
smiled
, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. “I knew your grandfather! I met him!” He thrust out a hand in excitement and then let it rest on his hip. “My father took me to his shop, once. It was a block from the Duomo, yes? We went there to purchase a gift for my mother.”

Alessandra found herself smiling up at him and quickly looked to the parchment again, as if intent on studying her letters. Because she didn’t want to notice the sparkle she’d just glimpsed in his dark eyes. The curl of his ebony hair at the nape of his neck. The way his broad shoulders came down to a narrow waist. She didn’t want to linger in this new-found camaraderie, between them. The draw. The pull.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Because she was leaving this enemy fortress. Just as soon as possible.

***

~EVANGELIA~

I stood by the window, looking out to the southern wall, tears streaming down my face as I listened to my sister sob.

Gabi wept as if the child was already dead in her arms.

Our parents had made it very clear. With the plague upon us in 1348, two years from now, the fewer we had to look after, the better off we’d all be. We already loved every person in the castle and beyond. But children? A little niece or nephew? A toddler when the plague truly began savaging Italy’s population, city by city, stealing one in three lives?

Even the
idea
of it struck terror in our hearts.

Their plan had been to wait until after the plague eased, to try for children. But birth control in medieval times was hardly what it was in the twenty-first century. “It’s an art, of sorts,” our mother had said, disappearing behind closed doors to explain what she could to Gabi.

Too bad I’m the artist of the family
, I mused, numbly counting limestone blocks to try and get my mind off of it.

After a while, her awful sobs eased, and I went to sit beside her on the bed. I reached out a hand and laid it on her back.

“Oh, Lia, what am I going to do?”

She turned over, her eyes red and puffy, one arm resting against her forehead as she looked to her bedroom ceiling, frescoed with stars. I stared at her, momentarily tongue-tied. You have to understand. My sis never cried. I’d seen it maybe ten times in my life, as much as this. She was a suck-it-up-and-deal kind of girl. I was the crier in the family.

“Well, Gabi,” I said, trying to ease the moment, “once you stop vomiting your guts out, you’re going to get hugely fat.”

She giggled and wiped her eyes.

My voice dropped. “And in nine months, you’re going to have the prettiest baby we’ve ever seen.”

Her chocolate brown eyes shifted to me, welling again with tears. “It’s crazy, so crazy, Lia. I just figured out I was pregnant. And I love it already. It’s…a part of me.”

“I know,” I said, reaching out to stroke her hair. “A little niece or nephew.” I shook my head. “It wasn’t part of the plan, but you and I know that life is kinda hard to plan, right? All kinds of things we couldn’t quite imagine have happened, even before this baby.”

She and I shared a meaningful look. We hadn’t been back to the tomb and the time portal that had brought us here in more than a year. “If things get bad…if the worst happens…” I said. “Gabs, we could take the baby back. Heal it. And return.”

“And leave Mom and Dad here? Marcello?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Luca?”